What you never knew
by shadowkitsune-sama
Summary: Ryou's get beaten up by Bakura. It happens all the time. But what really goes on inside Ryou's head when this happens? What about Bakura's?
1. Ryou

_Shadow: EDIT: Forget my last comment; this is now a two-shot, not a one-shot._

_Life is harsh..._

* * *

Today, you beat me again, and yet, like always, I'm not dead.

You threaten to kill me every day, but do you? No, you don't. _You're such a liar._

"You pathetic idiot; you should die." You snarl - yet again. It's _always_ the same line. "Die, die, _die..." **Hah**._

Sometimes, I feel like laughing in your face. I'll tell you you've already said that before. A _thousand_ times before - and yet, I'm still alive. _What part of alive is 'dead'? _And then you'd growl and sputter, and I would laugh at your face, all purple and bloated in disbelief and shock at my audacity.

And, and ... I _could_ do it. Honestly, I really could.

But ... why don't I say it? Well, I don't really know. I mean, it would be so easy to do. I could just open my mouth, and the words would come tumbling out without restraint. I've almost slipped a few times; they've almost flowed out of my mouth, only for me to clamp my lips shut at the last moment, the unsaid words building up in me like a vicious torrent tearing at my insides.

It's so hard to remember sometimes, when my head is just spinning in circles from the pain. Those words you say (_die... die... die...) _- who could blame me for wanting to laugh back?

And you, you just look at me like I was going to beg for mercy, when my mouth opens and closes without a word uttered. _Mercy?_ Honestly? You don't _know anything_, don't you?

**...**

When you first appeared, I wished that you were more like Yami. He's kind, intelligent, and would do anything for Yugi. …why couldn't you be the same?

Time pasted, and still, I would wish for you to be like him.

**_But now_**, now I don't care anymore. _I don't give a damn. _Why would I care? Why _should _I care? Life is turning more and more useless as the days go by.

I guess I have you to thank for that. I used to be so carefree, so …innocent, if you will. But now, every happy moment I've ever had has turned into _mush_. _Mush and diarrheal **crap **_- poetic, isn't it?

Mush can never be fixed back.

It's good for nothing... You can't even make good snowballs out of it, and yet, it's the only thing I have left to hold on to - watching as it dribbles through my fingers every second. Fleeting.

**...**

I give a cough. A splatter of blood hits the floor as your arm winds back for a second punch.

_Another punch, another splatter of red._

I watch as my blood drip onto the ground, red and vibrantly staining what was once a white carpet. It's like me; ruin so badly that no amount of bleach would never be able to completely bring it back to its former pure glory._ What is pure? I don't remember anymore..._

"Crybaby." You sneer.

I touch my face. Tears were involuntarily leaking out of my eyes, and I never even realized.

"Weakling."

But the tears just continue to fall, as you eye me disgustedly. Your nose scrunches up like you can't even bear to look at me.

"It's barely a cut," you mock.

Assumptions. Don't make assumptions. You assume the tears are because of the pain, but you don't know, do you? _You don't know anything at all._

Why do I cry? Don't pretend you know.

Not only do I _not_ weep because of the pain, I don't even care about it. It's just another unfortunate daily routine I have to bear, to endure. Nothing more, nothing less. Don't pretend you'll _ever _know. I cry because I'm in pain? Not voluntarily. I cry because I'm weak? That may be so. I cry because I'm not dead? Of course, but you'll never guess that, will you? Your punches, my pain; they're just another cog in life's melodramatic machine that must be present if I want to world to continue spinning on its axis. You are _nothing_ to me.

Don't be so egocentric. You think you know everything, but you really don't. _Who's pathetic now?_

Life is the hardest game you'll ever play. Rules are fleeting, if ever constant. Death is the easy way out. Take it every chance you ever get. That there's my life's lesson in a nutshell. That's ALL _you've_ ever taught me.

"I should just kill you; you're too pathetic to watch."

Your blade hovers over me, glinting light over its sharp edge. It moves in. I hold my breath. My breath hitches as the cold metal touches my skin, and then the metal moves out once more. It draw nothing more than a thin slither of blood across my neck.

I whimper in response, and you, of course, take it the wrong way. _Again._

"Scared?" You hiss out, auburn eyes flaring up in annoyance.

Of you? No. And of death? Well, not any more - I'm yearning for it nowadays, b_ut I bet you'll never guess that._

Like everything else, I _used_ to care. Care about living, that is - that's all we have to look for in this slow-burning, routine world, after all. Now... now, there's no point. No purpose. Everyday, I get beaten by you. My friends start to worry about me too much. My father died on one of his trips.

There's nothing left for me... no hope, no family ..._except for you._

**You**. Really, who'd want _you_?

**...**

Here I am, lying on the cold, hard, unforgiving ground, weeping. My lungs gasping for air. My face throbbing from pain. Blood blurs my vision and my sense of smell. My head spins as the world threatens to topple over me. My eyes, they sting, and flow with tears - never-ending tears.

Tears just never stop falling. All this time, and you still haven't figured out why. I pity you. I really do.

You just stand there. There, above me, looking down thinking you actually _know!_ Pathetic irony at its greatest, oh great tomb robber. Really, crying for my life? _Is that the best you could come up with?_

Why can't you just kill me like you say you would? Isn't that what you've always wanted to do? _I want to die._ Kill me and get it over with already. I'm pathetic, I'm an idiot, I'm a crybaby, I'm a weakling, I'm a scaredy cat. - aren't those enough reasons to warrant my death? Or did you not mean it when you told me this? _You liar._

I WANT you to kill me. Is it really that hard for _you_? _**You** of all people?_

Do you enjoy toying with your victims? Hasn't it been too long for that? It's been years since this abuse started.

_Why is life so bloody unfair?_

I **don't** want to live. There is no reason to - that's what these drops of salt water are for. Why can't you understand?

I don't know why - I don't know why I won't tell you straight out, but I really want you to know. To get it in your head. To know that_ life is overrated, to say the least. _Now that I think about it, I don't think there has _ever_ been any reason to live. And … well, perhaps you were right all along.

Maybe I had the better Yami all along. You'd feed me reality - untainted reality, hidden deep in this rosy tinted world of lies. Everyone else is oblivious, but I know._ Oh, I know._

_And I hate it._

I hate this world. I hate its lies, its fake happy smiles, its crumbling society swept under the carpet like it was actually possible to hide it.

Life? What life? How is _this_ life?

Let me free from this pathetic existence I have. _Kill me_. Fulfill your threats and warnings - make me happy at last.

_Life is not worth living..._

Is _this _what you've been trying to tell me? That's your lesson, isn't it? So why, Bakura, just why won't you just kill me? You've made me into this already; you've taken me this far. Now, just... just t_ake responsibility._

_(Kill me)_


	2. Bakura

**Author's Note: So, yeah, I decided to write another chapter. I don't write angst often, but writing angst makes me happy afterwards. I wonder why?  
**

* * *

_Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

I feel your head on my hand, as I push it on the ground. Your laboured breaths fill up the silence. Your long, snow-white hair tickles my palm as the wind blow through it. I hate that feeling. I cut it short with a jerk of my knife.

Your tears run down your face, streaking lines as they race off - meeting a bitter end on the harsh carpet floor, greedily soaking up each drop. Tears or blood; it really makes no difference. It soaks it all up eagerly so.

"You're pathetic; a crybaby. You'll get no where in life."

You clench your teeth and close your eyes as I wind up for another blow in the face. I stop. You look up expectantly, and I execute it right in the eye.

You flinch back, clutching it in pain. Tears threatening to fall again.

"You're pathertic; you deserve to die."

_Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

I give a ferocious kick in the stomach as you just stare pointlessly at my face. _What are you hoping for? Salvation?_

You sputter. You cough up blood. It splatters red all over my shoes, and you cringe knowingly at it. Oh, yes; you see what you did. You know what I'm going to do. You roll up protectively as I threaten you with my flip-knife.

I pull you up by your hair. That beautiful white hair of yours, coated in a layer of dust and dry, crusty blood. Your tears flow like a river now, and your whimpering starts up again.

I hold up the knife by the jugular of your neck. "So easy now." I whisper into your ear. You shiver at my voice. "So easy to kill."

Years earlier this quavering mass would have been nothing by now. You would've been a mere puddle on the floor. A pathetic excuse for an ex-host of mine.

Here, now, you still have the energy to whimper like a half-dead puppy. Big improvement.

I throw you to the side, pocketing the knife. "Still pathetic," I mutter at your flying back.

_Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

I crouch down by your face, and you look up instinctively. Drooping, expecting chocolate brown eyes meet auburn. You wince as you stare into my half-crazed eyes. Your mouth opens an inch, as if wanting to comment, but closes in a snap._ Stop hoping._

I grab your shirt by the collar and hold you up in the dark lit room. The quick altitude change leaves you glossy-eyes and dazed. The running blood from your scrapped head doesn't help, no doubt.

"You have something to say?"

You tremble in my hands. Eyes watering up _yet again_. You never stop, do you? Such a crybaby. I strode in the kitchen. You look at the drawers - knife drawer in particular - and I let your own fears play out in your mind.

With a quick push with my hand, your head disappears in the sink. I let the tap run by your ears, but you neither flinch nor move at the sound. Your breathing, however, tells it all. The sink fills. I push your head in. You suffer in silence, bubbles rising to the surface.

You flail your arms as you run out of air. I keep you under. Spasms of your chest tell me you're drank up water, and I let you up at last.

A flicker of gratitude fills your face before it disappears completely. You cough - coughing turns to hacking. You drop to the floor when I let go of your arm.

_Who do you think I'm doing this for?_

Life is not all fun and games. Life is never fair. Life should not be taken lightly.

I grab you by the arm, and flip you over. Your back on the floor. My foot on your stomach. I press down, water and saliva still spewing down the corners of your mouth. You grab at your throat, but I know you won't choke.

I stare you in the eyes. Your glistening brown eyes, no longer bright, but covered in a layer of darkness and death. You blink furiously to focus, and I just push my foot harder in response.

You're getting there. These eyes of yours are finally fitting for this vicious world.

You think an innocent boy would last a chance in this kind of place? The world is harsh and not for the weak. The weak minded; the weak strength. They will never survive.

You may scream all you want. You may swear all you want. You may hope all you want. You may cry all you want, but I'll never stop hurting you.

_Just who do you think I'm doing this for?_

You're just a pathetic child, kept in a blanket of comfort for much too long. The world will eat you alive out there. You'll never know what hit you.

I'm just preparing you for that onslaught.

Who's to say _I'm _really the bad guy here? Who's to say those schoolmates of yours are right? They can do however they please. They can die whenever they please. They don't concern me one bit.

You, my bodily reincarnation, on the other hand…

I give you a kick on the side, watching as you turn around, gasping for breath. You heave on the floor. I crinkle my nose in disgust at the sight.

You breath stays laboured. Your limbs wobble and give out without a notice. You clutch your stomach in pain, slowly drifting off. I push you out of my way with the back of my foot, watching as darkness claims you.

"There's still more you have to work at." I mutter to no one in particular.

_Really, just who do you think I'm doing this for? It's for Ryou's sake, of course. Preparation for the cruel life onwards._

_

* * *

_

**A/N: So Ryou's slowly dying inside, and Bakura thinks he's actually helping the poor boy. That's life. No one said it was fair. No one said it wasn't filled with misunderstandings. No one said you'll survive it with your sanity intact.**


End file.
